"I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine and rage the likes of which you would not believe. If I cannot satisfy the one, I will indulge the other."
Frankenstein by Mary Shelly
/
The wind blew softly against the rocky hillside. The sun was nearly setting, and if you peered far off, you could perhaps, in the best lighting, make out the lone figure of a man.
But this was no man, you would reason as you drew nearer. For no man stood with the same straight back as he, no man had long, silvery yellow hair like his. No man would stand in a single spot for hours, watching the sun move across the sky until it set behind the mountain.
Thranduil did not often find himself in this situation- or perhaps he did, and just refused to acknowledge it. Being alone was something he had grown accustomed to- had even thrived on at times. But despite all of his long years, he still did not fancy being lonely.
"You know," said a soft voice beside him. "Legolas would not deny it if you asked to accompany him."
Thranduil swallowed. "He would not, but I refuse to put my son through yet another day of my presence."
The voice was a whisper. "As much love as I have for Legolas, the same he has for you; as you do for him."
The woodland king gave a short, dry laugh, eyes drifting back up to the mountain. "There is a reliable captain of the guard who tells me otherwise."
"She is false in her presumptions, and you know this."
"Is she- though?" Thranduil asked. "There is little evidence to prove her as such."
"There was a time," the voice was now as smooth as honey, the words flowing freely, if only a bit of humor behind them. "When even the great Elven King of Mirkwood showed affection to some… Were we not caught by the willows once?"
He grinned at the memory of that particular afternoon. She had had lilies in her hair, and she wore a soft green dress. He remembered how she smiled at him, the midday sun shining briefly across her face that was considered by some- including him- to be the fairest in the east.
"Your father nearly took my head off when he found us."
"Nearly." The voice affirmed, a smile in it. Thranduil however, could not bring himself to return the humor.
"I do not want to go back." He said softly, the sky was darkening now.
"Then where would you go?"
He turned his head, only slightly. He knew that if he dared look further than a few feet he would find that she would not be there in her white dress, hair falling down in soft curls around her waist. If he turned, empty air, short grass and a mountain side would be all he could see.
"I would go where you are."
Quiet overtook the atmosphere, as did dread. She was gone. He had looked too far, and now the voice had departed from him- her voice that is. Thoughts crept up in his mind, ones of Gundabad- ones of blood and steel and tears. First tears of sorrow, and then of rage. Shouts echoed in the corridors and screams echoed in his heart when the scene of her, pale and stiff and unresponsive, filled his mind.
He felt himself fall to his knees, shaking. There had not, nor would there ever be, a time that he could remember the events of her death and not go into a depressive episode.
Breath ran to and from his lungs rapidly as he balanced his hands on his knees. It had occurred well over a thousand years ago- he reminded himself. She would not want this, just as he would not want it of her.
A hand fell against his shoulder.
"Thranduil."
He froze in place and did not look back, he dared not to.
"I am truly sorry," she said, voice cracking as the word 'sorry' ended. "I did not want this, not for you or Legolas, not for anyone."
Slowly, shakily, he moved his own hand, covered in orc blood as it was, up to his shoulder. Taking a deep breath, he placed it down on where he felt the pressure of hers.
Skin touched skin, and he shut his eyes tightly, as if looking in any direction at all would make her leave him. This had never happened before- hearing her? Yes. But touching her? He felt a strange warmth move through him. He knew that hand, soft and small, yet strong enough to break his nose as it once had. His thumb brushed over the skin of her wrist, soft and smooth. It was undoubtedly hers.
He felt her own hand twist beneath his and for a moment- he was well afraid that she was pulling away. Instead, she came to intertwine their fingers, palm resting against palm as she squeezed his hand tightly, and he squeezed back.
Was this a hallucination? Perhaps. It could have been some cruel trick from Mandos himself, or perhaps he truly was going insane. He found himself not minding in the least.
"You told Legolas that I loved him more than anything, more than life. That same love I have for you."
Closing his eyes again, he felt his fears and worries come to a halt, if only for a moment.
"Would you believe me now if I said the same thing?" The King's voice came out tenderly, hesitantly, almost as if he did not want to know the answer.
Something delicate and inexplicably lovely pressed against his brow- her lips- he recognized.
"Yes, I would."
He felt a small smile, the first genuine one he had portrayed in years, paint itself on his face.
"Sir?"
Her hand embraced his one last time, as if she knew what was coming; and then with a deep breath, he let go.
Thranduil stood, blinking away the tears that sat in his eyes. Whether they were of joy, or despair, he did not know.
"Come," said the king to his servant, brushing his fingertips against the hilt of Orcrist. "We have a funeral to attend."
/
I was originally going to write about Thorin (because the quote at the top was perfect for him), then Bard, but you know, everything always goes back to Thranduil. Just a bit of feels for you… I'm definitely hoping to see more of his wife in the extended edition. I hope you enjoyed- please let me know what you thought about this little one shot!